


play the same game

by caelystrae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, F/F, Hatesex, Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-13 20:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18038324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelystrae/pseuds/caelystrae
Summary: All she wants is a little stress relief, and for someone to slap her ass and call her worthless.Is that so hard?





	play the same game

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sealfarts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sealfarts/gifts).



> a long while ago i promised id write moicy for mariel. this moicy story specifically. so here it is

When she joined Overwatch, Angela did not do so with the intent of becoming famous.  What she wanted was funding, was authority, was access to the equipment necessary to advance her research as much as possible.  She got all of those things, but in the process she became a known figure, and while that is not bad, necessarily, is even helpful, at times, when her reputation and image lend her words a certain gravity—it can be a hindrance, too.

Certain things are harder to do when one is a public figure.

To say that Angela has any particularly dark secrets would be inaccurate, there is nothing that would _ruin_ her, were the public to learn of it, but—well, some desires do not match, ostensibly, with the image Overwatch has built for her.  With angelic imagery there is an implication of innocence, of gentleness.  Angela _can_ be gentle, is when her job calls for it, but innocent?

That she is not.

It should not matter—does not matter, she reminds herself—what her sexual preferences are, but she is not naïve.  If people knew what she liked, it would be fuel for tabloid gossip, and although such may be beneath her, it would affect how she is perceived, and therefore make her life more difficult, at times.

(And she does not want to be the subject of media speculation again—transitioning was bad enough, and that, at least, was something she was prepared to publicly defend.  There is no reason for the public to know about her sexual preferences, and therefore no reason why she should have to make them known.)

Still, it is so very hard to find a partner, these days, who is willing to do what she asks of them.  There is an expectation that she will want things sweet, and gentle, that she will either want to be cared for or otherwise be herself a doting lover.  It might be laughable, how wrong they are, if it were not so _damn_ frustrating.

She wants to tell them that she will not break, if they are rough, that she would much _prefer_ that, wants to tell them to stop being so damn _nice_ to her—because, really, there is enough pressure to be perfect in her daily life.  The last thing she needs is that expectation from a lover.

Unfortunately, she attracts the wrong sort of women.

Other people can be gentle all they like, can enjoy praise, but Angela is not looking for a relationship, is not looking for _feelings._ All she wants is a little stress relief, and for someone to slap her ass and call her worthless.

Is that so hard?

Yes, seems to be the answer.  Because of her job, and the image of herself that has become attached to it, people put her on a pedestal, project onto her what they think a woman who is a _healer_ and outspoken in her beliefs about morality ought to be—gentle, caring, innocent—and what she ought to _want_.  People who like the things Angela likes generally have very little interest in the woman she appears to be.

That is fair, really, is understandable, even—but if one more person tells her _I’m not actually comfortable calling you that, sorry_ , she might scream, and not in a fun way.

What she needs is someone she knows has not idealized her, someone who will not judge her for wanting things to be rough, and someone comfortable with being rude to her.  The former is impossible to guarantee in a stranger; fame has made avoiding expectations impossible, and the latter… all of the people who know her well enough not to have pre-judged her are coworkers, which presents its own set of problems.  Good sex is not worth risking a healthy workplace dynamic over, not in the long term.

Of course, she _could_ try meeting people anonymously, but that presents its own set of problems.  Either authorizing people to come on base, or finding a time when she is not on-call to sneak off of it, is too complicated to be worthwhile for anything less than a long-term arrangement.  There are channels for agents to set things up among themselves, she knows, but there is too high a risk, if she does so, of accidentally making plans with someone who is one of her patients, or serves under her.

It is quite the conundrum.  Who does she know well enough to be certain that they will not try to coddle her, but whom she does not mind the risk of souring a working relationship with?

Why, a woman with whom she already does not have a healthy working relationship, of course.

_Moira._

The woman is insufferable, to say the least.  If Angela says anything, she will say the opposite, will argue only for the sake of arguing and, once Angela is angry enough to see red, smugly say that it was only an _intellectual exercise_ , that she does not believe what she was just defending, and why is Angela so angry, anyway?  Her sharp features are matched only by her tongue, as she scolds Angela for lacking objectivity, for being hindered by an over-strict adherence to an already cautious methodology, for daring to feel _compassion_ for the subjects of their experiments.

 _Weak,_ she calls Angela, _sensitive, spineless._ At work, she will not stand or it, but maybe—

Well, Moira is not _un_ attractive, Angela supposes.  Were it not for the substance of her opinions, Angela might even find her smug sense of superiority about her beliefs attractive.

It is a bad idea.  Angela _knows_ it is.  But she knows, too, what it is to have Moira insult her, knows that her co-worker has never hesitated, before, to make it known just how strongly she believes Angela is wasting her life, her potential.

In the lab, such is infuriating, but in the bedroom?

Angela spends so much of her time making good decisions—who can fault her for one bad one?  And who would know to?  If they do this, it would as be shameful for Moira to admit as for her.

Asking is a risk, of course, but if Moira were to tell anyone, Angela doubts she would be believed.  After all, Angela _hates_ Moira.  Everyone knows that.

All she has to do is figure out the best way to make the proposition.  Part of her thinks that a formal proposal would be best, the details of what she wants outlined explicitly; it would appeal to both of their rational natures.  However, the rest of her thinks it is better to not leave too much evidence, lest someone else stumble upon it.

(Her browsing history is incriminating enough.)

For weeks, she mulls it over in her mind: proposals, counterproposals, conditions, how she might play it off, should Moira say no, how she will explain _why_ she wants Moira of all people.

As it turns out, she need not have wasted the effort—Moira agrees before hearing the conditions, the explanations, the rationalizations and excuses.  If Angela were not so relieved, she might feel let down.

Moira, it seems, has considered this, too.

(Perhaps it should not surprise Angela, who has caught Moira staring many times before, but it does.  Given Moira’s obvious disdain for her, she always assumed that the looks were of contempt, and not arousal.  Maybe they were both.  She certainly _hopes_ they were.)

They make plans—next week, and no sooner, Moira insists, for which Angela is grateful, as seeing as she forgot to shave—and then things return immediately to normal, Moira insisting that the proposed budget for research in the next fiscal year is absurd.  Of course, Angela disagrees; she made the budget, and anyway, her research is more impactful—quite literally, looking at their respective citation numbers.

From there, she can almost forget about their plans, let herself slip back into their day to day routine as if nothing changed.  _Almost_ , save for the excitement she feels when she catches Moira staring from across the lab, _almost_ , save for the way that some of the bite seems to have gone out of Moira’s worse jabs, the insult to her pride mitigated, somewhat, by arousal, _almost_ , save for the fact that she cannot help but noticed that Moira has trimmed the nails on one of her  hands. 

Maybe it is not quite so easy to return to normalcy as she tells herself it is, but who could blame her for being excited?  It has been far, _far_ too long since she had a good fuck.

Once everything is over, then she can return to going out of her way to avoid Moira.  Until such a time, well, if her eyes linger then she can simply claim to have been ensuring that Dr. O’Deorain was adhering to her standards for all researchers in the department, and not going rogue as she is wont to do. 

It is not a complete lie—Angela is doing that, too.  Whether or not anyone would believe such an excuse is another matter.

Fortunately, if anything is outwardly different, no one notices, and Angela does not have to attempt to justify herself.  The week passes without incident, or at least without incident outside of what is normal for Overwatch, and practically before Angela knows it, Moira is in her quarters.

She never did remember to shave, _fuck._

Clearly, Moira took more time in preparing than Angela did; the pomade is removed from her hair, allowing a few strands to frame her face, her eyeliner is thicker than usual, and although the silhouette of her outfit is the same, she has changed into nicer clothes than she wore in the lab that afternoon.  She looks _dashing_ , and for once, Angela does not have to pretend not to notice that.

Complimenting Moira would, of course, be counter to what they are doing here, so instead all Angela says, after inviting her inside, is, “You changed clothes.”

Moira looks her up and down, eyes lingering for a moment on the coffee stain still present on Angela’s blouse from that morning, “You didn’t.”

While Angela could make an excuse, could say that she was called away for a remote consultation at the last minute and did not have the opportunity to get dressed up—which is true—she does not _want_ to give Moira less of a reason to disdain her, right now, so what she says instead is only, “Clearly not.”

Rather than push back, however, and chide Angela for being rude, or insolent, Moira simply smiles at her, in a way that comes off not as patronizing, but reassuring, and says, “That’s alright.”

 _Alright_?  Surely not.  If Angela had a lover show up like this to hook up with her, she would leave then and there.  But perhaps Moira simply means that she will be undressed soon enough, anyway.

Yes, that must be the case, particularly when Moira breaks the ensuing silence by saying that, as Angela has surely realized by now, small talk is not her forte, and perhaps they ought to cut to the chase.

 _Thank god_.  Outside of arguing with Moira, Angela really has nothing to say to her, and the whole point of tonight is that she is not going to fight back, for once, is just going to listen to whatever Moira says and take it.

So, she has no argument, and leads Moira to her bedroom with no fanfare.  For a moment, she considers putting on music, to make things less awkwardly silent, but then she remembers the many arguments she and Moira have had over what to listen to in the lab, and thinks the better of it.  What she wants is to be humiliated for the _night_ , not to live the rest of her life with the shame of knowing that she once had sex to a song from an anime soundtrack.  A woman has to draw the line _somewhere._

Fortunately, Angela is saved from her own line of thinking by Moira seeming to remember what, exactly, she is here for, and tossing her down onto the bed.  Tossing is, perhaps, overstating things—Moira may be tall, but she is not at all strong—but she does push, rather assertively, and that at least seems to be a step in the right direction.

Or it would be, if Moira did not immediately follow it up with climbing on top of Angela to _kiss_ her.

It is not that Angela hates kissing, exactly.  In fact, under the right circumstances, she quite enjoys it.  The problem is simply that if Moira is kissing Angela, then she is not _insulting_ her, which was the entire purpose of inviting Moira here in the first place.

At least Moira is a good kisser, and none too gentle.  She may be more _passionate_ and less _rough_ , but she does not act as if Angela will break, is unafraid to use her teeth and to let her hands wander, one to pull at Angela’s hair and the other down at her breasts.  Things are still a bit awkward, at first, the two of them figuring out the right angle at which to not bump noses too terribly, or click their teeth together, but that quickly gives way to arousal as they find a rhythm that works.

Who would have thought that they could work so well together?  Not Angela, certainly, who anticipated that their foreplay would be nonexistent at best.  Admittedly, the bar for what she expected was quite low, but Moira easily surpasses it, and Angela finds herself growing aroused despite the act that they have not yet gotten to anything that she normally finds pleasurable.

(Really, Angela does not _hate_ foreplay, she just would much rather not waste her time on it when other things are more fun.  She is a busy woman, and there is so much more she can do with half an hour.)

Despite her enjoyment, she is grateful, therefore, when Moira sits back up and unbuttons her shirt.  Finally, they are getting somewhere.

The look Moira gives Angela, however, is not imperious, is not disdainful, is not unimpressed.  Instead, she seems to like what it is she sees, hands moving to old down the cups of Angela’s bra for better access to her breasts.

That is fine, Angela thinks, perhaps Moira is simply a bad actress.  Surely, she will say _something_ rude soon, will make up for this lull with harsh words and harsher actions.

She does not—but she is rough, at least, sucks at the skin of Angela’s breasts until it is bruised, bites her, in a few places, leaves a mark when Angela encourages her to do so.  Against Angela’s nipples, her teeth are sharp, and Angela hisses—this never was so pleasant before HRT, but now she is _sensitive_ in a way she was not previously, and thinks that maybe this is not such a waste of time, after all.

If only they had thought to take her pants off, first—they are quickly growing uncomfortably constricting. 

Before she can complain about that, however, Moira sits up, surveying her handiwork.  Her eye seems critical, and Angela dares hope, for a moment, that she will say something about how _ruined_ she looks, how _easily_ she agreed to this, how there will be marks for everyone to see, to know that for all that Angela pretends to be above Moira, she was below her tonight.

Instead, Moira’s smile is decidedly less predatory than usual, “Beautiful,” says she, voice awed.

“ _What?_ ” Surely, Angela misheard.

“You’re beautiful,” Moira repeats, “Really,” something in her tone is—reassuring?  Too kind?  As if she thinks that she is telling Angela something she does not believe about herself.

“No, I know that,” says Angela a bit testily.  “Why are you _telling me_?”

“I was simply observing—”

“ _Bullshit,_ ” Angela says it a bit more forcefully than she intends perhaps, but this is not at all going where she wanted it to.  Maybe she can push Moira back on track, “You’ve never said one nice thing to me in your life.  Why start now?”

“Because,” says Moira, “Despite what I may think about your methods, you are undoubtedly intelligent and I _do_ respect you.”

“Lovely,” Angela does not think she has ever gone soft so quickly in her life.

Just her luck, really.  The one person she thought she could count on to hate her, whom _she_ hates, has the gall to claim respect.  Respect!  Honestly, it is insulting, and not even the sort of insult Angela finds arousing.

A frown from Moira, “I’m being serious.”

“I’m sure you are,” Angela refrains from rolling her eyes, only because it is beneath her.

(Being beneath Moira is beneath her too, and yet, here she is.)

Her exasperation must not be clear enough, because Moira is still touching her, hand trailing lower down Angela’s abdomen to the hemline of her pants, “I mean it, Angela.  Let me show you.”

“Wait,” says she, and really, she _ought_ to get rid of Moira now, ought to tell her to leave, and be done with this, because there is no way in hell she is getting off having heard this.  But if she does so, then she has to go through the trouble of explaining to _Moira O’Deorain_ , of all people, that she has a humiliation kink, and that for the last week or so she has been getting off to their office banter, and thought it was reciprocal.

Bad enough that Moira—apparently—has some sort of feelings for her, but admitting _that_?  Even Angela has some pride, and enough sense to know that if she did so, Moira would only be _more_ insufferable in the lab than she ever was before.

Besides, the fact that Moira wants her could be useful, later.  Best not to squander what little goodwill she seems to have accrued now.

So, she lies.  “I’m actually not sure I’m comfortable with…” she says, and gestures vaguely towards her crotch.  If Moira thinks her insecure, thinks her blushing, embarrassed, she can be.  Never mind the fact that Angela has never been anything approaching ashamed of her body—any of it. 

(People sometimes think she is, because she is trans, or because they think of her as innocent, but they forget that she is a doctor.  Bodies are bodies.  Would Angela prefer that hers was one people more quickly recognized as a woman’s?  Yes.  But is she ashamed?  No, far from it.)

“Would you prefer that we—” Moira starts, but Angela cuts her off before she can suggest anything.

“Let me take care of you first, okay?”

If she can just get Moira off, and send her on her way, then this whole ordeal can be done with.  As for how she will avoid a repeat—well, that is a problem for _after_ Moira has left.

Moira acquiesces easily, allows Angela to switch places with her, to unbutton her slacks and yank them down.  Although Angela prefers to finger partners, she thinks that, if she uses her mouth, then at least she will not have to worry about conversation.  Insofar as any of her interactions with Moira can be considered a conversation, anyway.

Rather than teasing Moira, she dives right in, thinking that if Moira was enjoying her chest nearly as much as she seemed to, she will be wet enough for this already, and is gratified to find that she was right to assume as much.

Moira, it seems, is an easy lover, excitable.  This is a surprise to Angela, who would not describe Moira generally as either easy or excitable, but she is grateful for it—the quicker she can finish this, the better. 

Before long, Moira has wrapped the fingers of one of her hands—the one with the trimmed nails—in Angela’s hair.  The tug is gratifying, is _strong_ , shoves Angela’s face further up into her crotch, and it could almost be good, were it not for the accompanying words. 

 _Yes_ , pants Moira, and _Good_ and _Perfect_. 

Horrible, thinks Angela, absolutely horrible.  If only Moira would hiss at her, instead, would sneer and say she were so _eager_ , so _sloppy_ , so _desperate,_ then Angela might be able to enjoy this.  Instead it is—not terrible, she supposes.  Moira tastes nice enough, and the sounds of pleasure she makes _are_ rather fetching, if Angela thinks about it, but…

Angela abandons that train of thought.  Nothing good can come of it.  After all, Moira is still _Moira_ , no matter how dashing she looks with her eyes half-lidded smiling down at Angela, she is still the woman who goes out of her way to vex Angela as much as possible in the lab, to make it nigh on impossible or her to work in peace, always attempting to goad her into abandoning her own moral and ethical code.

She cannot find Moira attractive—will not.

But she also cannot help but notice the way Moira’s chest is heaving now, the little cries she makes, the length of her limbs as she arches her back in Angela’s bed. 

Maybe she finds Moira a _little_ attractive.

 _That_ makes her ashamed, more than anything else.  She should not want to want Moira, or want to be wanted by her, does not want to be wanted by her.  After all, Moira has, generally, rather poor taste, as Angela has observed, so if Moira wants her—well, what does that say about Angela?

That thought effectively keeps her from getting hard again.  Bad enough to have a partner who expects things from her—because really, Angela is tired of being needed all the time—but for it to be Moira?

No, no although Angela is not _not_ enjoying this, she tells herself that she cannot enjoy it, either.  Cannot enjoy the feeling of Moira pulling on her hair, or the trembling of her thighs on either side of Angela’s head, cannot enjoy the reverent way Moira says her name.  That last part, at least, Angela would not have enjoyed anyway.

Far better to be the object of Moira’s contempt.

Yet Moira evidently feels little contempt for her in the moment, is blissfully unaware of any of the things Angela is considering, is growing louder—because of _course_ Moira would be the type to be annoyingly loud, and get Angela in trouble with her neighbors—is rolling her hips into Angela’s face, is repeating, _damn her_ Angela’s name.

What gives her the right? 

Angela gave her permission, of course, when she thought Moira would be _insulting_ her, because it is degrading to be stripped of her titles, to have all her hard work dismissed—but this is not _that._ This is something far worse. 

_Intimacy._

(With intimacy comes not only expectation, but also a greater danger: the potential for loss.  Angela does not want to love, or to be loved, because if she does so, then there is always the chance—always—that she will again be left alone.  No, Angela does not want intimacy with anyone, and wants it with Moira least of all.)

At that point, although Angela’s jaw has begun to get just a bit sore, she redoubles her efforts.  Best to finish things _now._

Fortunately, Moira does not seem the type to be easily overstimulated, responds well to Angela focusing her attention more directly on her clit, grows louder and pulls at Angela’s hair harder and tightens her legs around Angela’s head until, suddenly she is done.

True to form, she lacks the decency to give Angela any proper warning, pins Angela’s head in place and bucks against her mouth in a way that is decidedly uncomfortable—but that, at least Angela likes.  It is what she wanted, to feel used.

Naturally, Moira ruins it the moment her orgasm is over, releasing Angela’s head and sitting up and away from her with an _apology_ for having done so.

An apology!  From Moira!  Wonders never cease.

But although Angela thinks it, she refrains from saying that she thought Moira incapable of such, because clearly Moira is not going to be goaded into anything, tonight, and she may as well save her breath.

Instead she says, “It’s fine, really,” and then, something close to the truth, “I don’t mind if things are a little rough.”  In fact, she prefers them _far rougher._

“I suppose,” says Moira, once again reaching for the fly of Angela’s pants, “I can do that.”

No, no she cannot.  Because even if Angela _almost_ enjoyed going down on Moira, she knows Moira is going to be far too _nice_ to get her off, and she really does not want to explain why she suddenly is turned off when Moira compliments her.

“That won’t be necessary,” says she.

A frown, “Surely you’d like me to reciprocate.”

Being calm under pressure is a part of Angela’s job, as a surgeon, but there is a reason why she was not chosen to do special ops—she cannot _lie_ under pressure.  Or, not believably.  “I already came!” she insists, and belatedly realizes that her pants are still very much zipped, and Moira _knows_ she was not touching herself whilst going down on her.

“When?” Moira’s eyes narrow, and Angela thinks _shit,_ because there is no avoiding explaining all of this now.  Before she can say anything else, however, Moira seems to reach her own conclusion, “You mean when I was—”

(Of _course_ Moira would assume that she was somehow good enough to make Angela come only from playing with her tits.  That, at least, is familiar territory, Moira’s assumption that she is superior in all things, is far more talented than anyone has any right to think of themselves.  For once, it is actually useful to Angela.)

“Yes!” Angela is relieved to not have to think of anything else, and fortunately her panic seems to have telegraphed instead as embarrassment.

“Well,” Moira’s smug expression is, at least, something with which Angela is already intimately familiar, “That would explain your sudden shyness.”

It _would,_ if it were true, but—well, Angela does not deign to reply to Moira.  What can she even say?  _No, actually, I didn’t get off, you did a decent job but then you had to go and compliment me, and I can’t stand that,_ or maybe _Yes, I did, of course Moira, you’re so talented, how could anyone resist you?_ Although the first is true, neither would sound believable, coming from Angela’s mouth.  But she _wants_ to say them, because the truth of the first and evident sarcasm of the second might, for once, knock Moira off balance, might make her feel embarrassed or unsure for once in her goddamn life.  If only honesty were not so inconvenient, right now. 

Unfortunately, her silence must still come off as shame, because Moira reaches a hand up to cup her cheek, then, entirely too gentle.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” Moira reassures her, “These things happen.”  In another circumstance, such a patronizing tone as she has now would be arousing, would be exquisitely humiliating, but now?  Now it is merely vexing.  Really, how dare Moira assume that because she has, for some reason, projected _intimacy_ onto their rivalry that she is able to speak to Angela in such a way, to understand her?

Yes, these things happen, but not to _Angela_. 

“Yes,” says Angela stiffly, “Well.”  Saying little seems to be the best course of action, as Moira is apparently very capable of filling in a narrative on her own, no matter how inaccurate it may be.

“If you would like,” Moira offers, “We can wait until you’re ready to go again.”

“No!” says Angela, a little too vehemently, “No, I—Really, Moira, I appreciate it, but I think this was quite enough.”  At least here, her embarrassment is genuine.  Tonight was _definitely_ more than she bargained for, just not in the way that Moira seems to think.

“If you’re certain,” there is sympathy in Moira’s eyes, or worse, pity, “Then I suppose I can take my leave.”

“Please,” Angela says, and then, to make it more believable, “I’d like to, ah, get cleaned up.”

Under that pretense, she moves to her ensuite bathroom while Moira dresses; really, what she wants is to avoid any more awkward conversations, any more overtures of _respect_ or _kindness_ or _sympathy_ especially, although Moira’s smugness is equally unwelcome, at the moment.

Once she is certain that Moira has left she reemerges, shucks her—unsoiled, _thank you_ —pants and her coffee-stained shirt, and collapses onto her bed, which still smells faintly of Moira, damn her.

What a disaster.  Not only does she now have to live with the knowledge that Moira—Moira!—apparently _respects_ her, putting Angela on level with any number of things that she herself hates, but she now has to live with the knowledge that, in the heat of the moment, Moira is quite attractive.

(That had better not feature in any future sex dreams.)

Now, although she is still as pent up as ever, she is also going to have to deal with the fact that Moira, smug, infuriating, and regrettably  _sexy_ Moira, thinks that the reason they will not be having sex again is that Angela is too _embarrassed_ to do so, because Moira is just _so good_ at sex that Angela could not help but _come in her pants_ from just a little making out and attention paid to her tits.

_As if!_

The whole situation, the assumptions, the frustration, Moira’s damn ego, is just a mess.  That Moira will continue to believe this is true—and she will, because this narrative is one that suits her, that strokes her ego, and Angela telling the truth would only sound like an excuse to her—it is terrible.  It is infuriating.  It is embarrassing.  It is…

Well, it is _humiliating._

Despite herself, Angela perks up at the thought.

Perhaps tonight was not a _total_ waste.

**Author's Note:**

> and that... is that


End file.
